


one last tender place

by procrastinatingbookworm



Category: Constantine (TV)
Genre: (technically) - Freeform, Aftercare, Anal Sex, Daddy Kink, Dissociation, Hand Jobs, Hotel Sex, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Intimacy, Kissing, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Nightblogging, Nightficcing?, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Safeword Use, Smoking, The Ocean Is Scary, a bit of, and the associated dissociation-inducing struggles with intimacy, because this is john constantine we're talking about, it's 4:07 am
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:01:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21544186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/procrastinatingbookworm/pseuds/procrastinatingbookworm
Summary: I swear, I end up feeling empty, like you’ve taken something out of me, and I have to searchmy body for the scars, thinkingDid he find that one last tender place to sink his teeth in?(visiblemarket, also known asmorethanonepageon tumblr sent me this excerpt from a Richard Siken poem, and this is the resulting fic. Make of it what you will.)
Relationships: Chas Chandler/John Constantine
Comments: 5
Kudos: 75





	one last tender place

There was something exhaustingly poetic about smoking a cigarette on a hotel balcony.

There was even an ocean for him to stare moodily into, a salty breeze ruffling his hair.

The sun had just set, and the sky looked like someone had broken their head open on it; all red streaks and pink masses of clouds. If John craned his head back, he could see the first stars pricking through the darkness.

He missed the city. There was much less empty space, in cities. More to distract yourself with.

“John?” Chas called.

John turned around. Chas was sitting up in bed, the sheets pooled around his waist. He was lying to one side of the bed, so John would have space. An invitation, to match how John had piled his suitcase and his kit on the opposite bed, a physical boundary against separation.

John stubbed out his cigarette on the balcony railing, dropped it to the ground, and came inside. He pulled the balcony door shut behind him, then the curtains, and finally looked at Chas.

“Yeah, mate?”

Chas pulled his t-shirt off over his head in one swift motion, tossing it onto the opposite bed. “Come to bed.”

With a thrill of anticipation, John started untying the belt of his coat, toeing off his shoes as he stepped closer. “Well, when you put it that way…”

Chas’ hands were on him as soon as John was in range, dragging him close. John paused, hands hovering over his shirt buttons, but Chas didn’t seem to want to undress him. He just held John by the hips, thumbs tracing up and down his sides, while John stripped in front of him.

It was more than a little arousing.

When John got down to his trousers, Chas moved his hands up, squeezing John’s waist. He couldn’t get his hands all the way around anymore, but that was Chas’ own fault. He was the one who cooked.

John stepped clumsily out of his trousers, kicking them out of the way. Chas’ eyes raked over him, hungry, wanting… guilty.

“Penny for them?” John asked, getting onto the bed. He pulled the sheets out of the way and knelt between Chas’ legs. He’d rather be in his lap, but that could come later.

Chas blinked. “I was thinking about you.”

John wrapped his arms around Chas’ neck, settling against him with a sigh. It had been chilly, out on that balcony, and Chas was so temptingly  _ warm. _ “You gonna fuck me?”

Chas huffed out a laugh. “I was planning a little more foreplay than this, but yeah.”

John reached between them, slipping a hand into Chas’ boxers, giving him a careful stroke. Chas shuddered, reaching out.

His hand hovered for a moment at John’s hip, and then rose, cupping his face.

John leaned forward and kissed Chas, so he wouldn’t have to look at him. Chas kissed back, still cradling John’s cheek. John could feel the weight of Chas’ hand, his fingertips brushing John’s hairline even as the heel of his hand supported John’s jaw.

He could probably kill John, if he set his mind to it. Choke the life out of him with one huge hand. 

Instead, Chas touched him like  _ this. _

When they broke apart, Chas pushed two fingers into John’s mouth. John took them without complaint. This, he could do. This was easy. He didn’t even need to look, just laved his tongue around each digit, wetting them up to the second knuckle.

He still had his eyes closed when Chas got his free hand into John’s boxers. John yelped, the sound muffled by Chas’ fingers, squirming away on instinct from the sudden rush of sensation.

“Sorry,” Chas said, but he didn’t take his hand off John’s cock. His palm was warm and calloused, dry enough to hurt, just a little.

John’s head was spinning. This was why he didn’t like beach towns. Too much salt and consumerism and old magic in the air.

It didn’t get better when Chas started stroking him. It was downright uncomfortable, being wanked with a dry hand.

John liked it anyway. Liked the roughness of it, the way Chas didn’t quite look at what his own hand was doing, more concerned with how John was sucking his fingers.

Chas pulled his fingers out without enough warning for John to open his mouth all the way, and John’s teeth caught on his first knuckle, scraping over the skin for a moment.

Chas wasn’t into pain, John knew that, but the rumbling sound he made in his throat in reaction was enough to make John’s cock twitch.

Chas switched hands, stroking John’s cock with his two dampened fingers, reaching for John’s waistband with the other hand.

“You’re good to me,” John sighed, as Chas pulled his boxers down. “So good to me, Chas.”

“I’d still fuck you,” Chas murmured, “if you didn’t butter me up first.”

“Can’t a bloke be honest?” John replied, and then Chas did that  _ thing _ with his fingers at the base of John’s cock, and it took a moment for him to be able to form coherent thoughts again.

Suddenly, Chas let go. John choked off a whine and opened his mouth to complain, before he saw what Chas was getting out of the drawer in the bedside table.

It took a few seconds of watching Chas unscrew the lube cap before he realized what was wrong with the picture. If they were at home, John wouldn’t have questioned it—Chas was a smart bloke, he kept things like lube and condoms in arm’s reach—but they’d only been at the hotel for a few hours.

“So this was premeditated, eh?” John rasped, delighted by the thought, giving himself a few lazy strokes while Chas tore open a condom and rolled it on.

Chas looked up, intently enough that John had to meet his eyes. “Yeah.”

John swallowed hard. That look, that quiet confidence, he didn’t get that out of Chas too often. It was a good memory to hold on to, for a rainy day.

He got to his hands and knees and crawled forward, settling himself in Chas’ lap. Chas was still looking at him, attentively.

John shut his eyes and keeled forward, burying his face against Chas’ neck. He listened as Chas slicked his fingers and cock with lube, screwed the cap back on, and set the tube aside.

“John,” Chas said, low and rumbling. “Ready?”

John opened his eyes, straightening up. “Yeah.”

Chas turned John over with barely any effort, grabbing him by the hips. John wasn’t sure if Chas was manhandling him for convenience’s sake or because he knew John liked it, but either way—

“Oh fuck, Chas,” John groaned, train of thought utterly derailed as one of Chas’ thick fingers prodded at his entrance, then pushed inside. There was lube, but not much. “You’ll fucking kill me.”

“Shh.” Chas ran his free hand up and down John’s side, sending little sparks of sensation across John’s ribs. “You’re good, John. You’re doing good.”

John whined, half-tempted to rut against the bed just to see what Chas would do. Instead, he tried to press himself back, but Chas held him steady, sliding his finger in and out, fingertip to knuckle, waiting until the movement was slow and easy before adding another. 

“Chas, c’mon, please,” John choked out. He tried to bury his face in the mattress, to muffle the whimper stuck at the back of his throat and hitching all his words up an octave, but he was at the wrong angle for it.

“You’re always talking about how big I am,” Chas rumbled, a smirk in his voice. “I’m just making sure you can take it.”

“I can take it.” John said, the last syllable punched out of him in a gasp as Chas added a third finger. “Fuck.”

“You okay?” Chas asked, in that tender bloody way of his, and John growled. He drove himself back against Chas’ fingers until it  _ hurt. _ Chas didn’t stop him, like John thought he might, just tightened his grip on John’s hip, as if in warning.

“I need your fucking cock, please,  _ Daddy. _ ” John said, clipping the consonants of the last word against his teeth. It wasn’t the most eloquent way of getting his point across, but it was the one that involved the least begging.

Chas’s fingers slipped out. John crossed his arms on the bed and braced himself, but he still gasped when Chas pushed into him.

“Fuck, that feels good.” Actually, it felt more like the room was spinning, but John didn’t mind. He didn’t mind the ache of being fucked so deep, he didn’t mind the bruises he’d have on his hips tomorrow, right where his belt sat, driving him squirming mad all day, he didn’t mind the salt air giving him a headache, if only Chas would keep bloody moving.

Chas didn’t seem to be in the mood for the torture he calls  _ being careful _ , even with the face-cupping from earlier. He fucked John like he wanted him to feel it, even though he’d probably get that shifty, guilty look when he saw the bruises.

John tried to catch his breath. The air felt stifling, all low sea level and salt and the kind of magic that lived in the unexplored parts of the ocean.

He couldn’t think. He felt Chas fucking him, in and out, felt himself reacting, moaning and trembling and saying  _ yes, yes, Chas, please, harder, _ but he wasn’t there with himself.

John hit the bed three times.

They didn’t have an established safeword—they’d never really needed one. The few forays they’d made into kink had been relatively vanilla by John’s standards. A little tying up, a little bossing around. One memorable spanking that Chas still went red when he talked about.

But John knew that Chas had done research, and hopefully he’d recognize the tap-out for what it was.

Chas pulled out. It was sloppy, and it hurt, but John barely felt it. Barely felt the emptiness that came after. Barely felt the ache in his cock.

“John?” Chas asked, all worry. “Did I hurt you?”

“M’fine.” John groaned. “Just didn’t… my head went… I wasn’t…”

Chas stood up from the bed. “I’m going to get you some water.”

John rolled over onto his back, watching from the corner of his eye as Chas fetched a styrofoam cup from beside the coffee maker, and went into the bathroom to fill it. He came back out after what felt like no time, but Chas’ face was damp, like he’d splashed water on it, and his cock had softened.

“Did you just… zone out?” Chas asked, lifting John upright so he could sip from the cup. The water was lukewarm. Chas’ hands were hot, though—like brands against John’s skin.

“Dissociated, yeah,” John nodded, biting the edge of the styrofoam cup. “Felt like it ruined the fun,” he shrugged one shoulder. “Would rather you be fucking me while I’m feeling it, not while I’m…”

“It’s all right,” Chas cut in. He picked up his boxers and slid them back on, then his t-shirt.

John drained the cup, and pitched it half-heartedly at the trashcan. He missed. Chas got up, picked up the cup, and put it in the trash. He looked at John, from halfway across the room, and John felt wretched.

“Must be the air. The ocean always gave me a strange feeling.”

“The door’s closed. You closed it.” Chas pulled the sheet up from where they’d shoved it to the foot of the bed and draped it around John, squeezing his shoulders.

“I can still smell it.” John didn’t mean to, but he leaned into Chas’ touch, always pathetically hungry for reassurance.

“Okay.” Chas didn’t argue, just wrapped an arm around John. “Want me to light you a cigarette?”

John shut his eyes. “Sure.”

He heard Chas pick up the coat, rifle through the pockets. Heard the carton open, the cigarette come out. The  _ snick _ of a lighter. John parted his lips, and Chas put the cigarette in his mouth.

The nicotine helped. So did the arm around his shoulders.

“I’m thinking of going back to London,” John said, after a while.

“Just you?”

John shrugged. “If it works out that way.”

“Forever?”

That made John smile. “Nothing’s forever, Chas.”

“I’d go with you.”

John knew he would. It didn’t make it any less touching. Or terrifying.

“We’ll see,” John said, finding something like peace in how Chas held him a little tighter. He reached over, contemplatively, and took Chas’ free hand, lacing their fingers together. “We’ll see.”


End file.
